The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

letter with me, and I read through it again slowly.

Near the end, I found the line I’d missed the first time. Or maybe I hadn’t been ready for it yet.

“You’ll always know where to find me.”

At seventeen, I thought it sounded romantic. I didn’t know it would become the kind of sentence that takes thirty years to finish.

I set continue reading …